


Starcrossed Lovers

by Pink_Haired_Queer



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hello Mycroft, High School AU, IT'S FINALLY FINISHED, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, This is the result of my boredom, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Haired_Queer/pseuds/Pink_Haired_Queer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WhoLock crossover!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So I got bored and wrote this. I'm going to try to update regularly, this is my first attempt at a crossover so yeah...
> 
> Constructive criticism is food for my soul and I need it please!! Or just tell me your opinion :3 
> 
> thanks xx

The new boy was... strange. He was, well, quirky, odd, very funny and rather nice, but very weird. Sherlock liked weird. Weird was interesting, different. Most people were just so indescribably boring that this was a wonderful change.

When the boy entered the classroom Sherlock's interest was piqued. He did look like he'd wandered in by accident, or fallen from the sky, he looked a bit dazed. Sherlock knew he was sitting up. The boy had sharp features, a sharp nose, sharp cheekbones, dark eyebrows and a thin mouth. His eyes were dark, but from what Sherlock could see they were sort of greenish.

"I'm sorry," the teacher, Mr Mulligans, said, taking in the boy's messy dark hair and relaxed attitude. "I wasn't aware that we had a new student, what's your name?"

"Didn't you get the memo?" The boy had a sort of Scottish accent. He seemed, all in all, very relaxed, especially since he was obviously new. Usually people hated being in front of the class, but the boy didn't seem to mind it much.

He held up a piece of paper. Sherlock saw it was blank. The teacher just nodded and told the boy to introduce himself. Sherlock was extremely confused. The teacher obviously thought that it said something there. The boy was wearing a blue button down shirt, black skinny jeans, almost identical to the ones Sherlock was wearing, but moderately cheaper, he could tell from the texture of the material, denim, but slightly coarser, converse trainers, and a scruffy brown coat.

"My name is John Smith."

"Is John Smith your real name?" Anderson, the annoying boy in most of Sherlock's classes (god, Sherlock couldn't escape this stupid idiot, he was just always there, infecting everybody's minds with the absolute rubbish he spewed whenever he opened his mouth), asked.

He sat down next to Sherlock. "Hello! What's your name, then?"

"Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you," Sherlock said. He sounded extremely bored. He didn't make any move to shake John's hand. He didn't sound very pleased to meet John Smith anyway.

John Smith was weird. He was difficult to analyse, he seemed pretty ordinary, but there was something 'off' about him. He felt familiar. It was intriguing.

 

* * *

 

During lunch break Sherlock stood in the corner of the break room. John came up to him. He'd successfully managed to shake off the flock of girls who'd gathered around him. Sherlock definitely understood why. Unconventional good looks are still good.

He didn't like boys or girls, exactly. Boys were stupid and annoying and obsessed with stupid things like football and sex and girls. Girls were annoying and wore make-up (stupid) and giggled and travelled in packs and threw themselves at him. He didn't really like any of them. He did, however, sleep with them. No one from his school, but older people. Usually older guys. They liked him. He liked sleeping with them. He'd started about a year ago, just after his mummy and Mycroft decided Sherlock needed a "fresh start", whatever that meant. He didn't remember much about his life before that, not that he wanted to.

But John was different, John was interesting.

"Hello! How are you doing?" John asked. He was cheerful in an almost forceful way. He was aggressively happy.

"Fine," Sherlock said.

"Yeah? Because you seem very... alone. Where are your friends?"

"Don't have any friends."

"Everyone should have friends," John said, softly. Sherlock simply took one bite of the apple he held. He chewed, swallowed, took another bite.

"I appreciate the sentiment but I don't have friends."

"I'll be your friend," John said, impulsively, before he could catch himself.

"That's sweet, but I have no need for friends."

"Is that all you're eating?" John asked, as Sherlock threw the apple into the bin.

"Yes."

"Don't you eat?"

"I simply cannot be bothered."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Why don't you want any friends?"

"Boring."

"Ooh look, Freak's got himself a boyfriend," Anderson jeered, coming up from nowhere.

"Oh, do shut up, Anderson," Sherlock said, in the bored tone of voice of someone long suffering. "If you don't the few brain cells you own might just drift out of your mouth."

John laughed.

"Think it's funny, do you, you weirdo?" Anderson demanded.

"Well, a little bit, yes," John said. Anderson pushed John into the wall.

"What was that for?" John asked.

"Freak called me stupid and you're just laughing!"

"Well, to be fair, you aren't exactly proving him wrong, are you? Anyway, you didn't have to push me, that hurt!"

"What are you going to do, run to mummy?" Anderson mocked.

"What's going on here?" A tall boy and a much shorter one wearing a knitted jumper came up to them. The tall boy who was talking had his hands on his hips, looking disapprovingly at Sherlock.

"Anderson started it," Sherlock said. He was still leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his skinny chest, looking bored. John caught Sherlock's eyes. He had striking eyes. They looked blue green, but with speckles of yellow.

"It's nothing," John said, clapping Anderson on the back. "Just making new friends, isn't that right?" John pinched Anderson once, hard, making him flinch slightly.

"Erm, yeah, Lestrade, just making new friends," Anderson muttered.

"Are you new?" The shorter boy with the jumper asked, looking John up and down.

"Yes," John said. "I'm John Smith, you?"

"You're... hey, me too! My name is also John, John Watson. I'm Sherlock's brother."

" _Adopted_ brother," Sherlock muttered.

Sherlock noticed how tense Watson was. He could see Watson's pupils dilate a fraction. John Watson wanted John Smith. John Watson was obviously involved with Lestrade though. It was so easy to see, the way Lestrade looked at Watson, and the way Watson's body language suggested more intimacy than ordinary friends had. And Sherlock had caught them in bed together once. He'd tried to delete that terrible memory, but it had scarred him. Just the thought of Lestrade and Watson naked... Sherlock suppressed a shudder when he thought of that.

"Well, it's time for me to go to class," Sherlock said. "John, come." Anderson had stomped off already, which Sherlock hadn't really registered. "Oh, and Lestrade," Sherlock said, pausing. "You might want to hold on to your boyfriend a little, I believe Watson likes John Smith." John Watson and Lestrade blushed furiously.

"You... how do you... how could you- it's not even true-" Lestrade and John spluttered. Of course Sherlock knew, but not in front of everyone! He didn't have to say it so loud!

"Oh, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, winking, and grabbed John's arm and led him off.

"Oy!" John protested. "Are you always this pushy?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "Other people might call it 'being a dick' though." John laughed.

He realized they'd walked into the library. Sherlock spent hours in the library, it was pretty decent actually, and had lots of books on the sciences, and if Sherlock found a book he liked people usually didn't even notice if he didn't give it back.

"Where, exactly, are you from?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, Manchester," John lied. Sherlock knew he lied. He was a good liar, but a liar nonetheless.

"You're not telling me the truth," Sherlock said.

"You're being nosy."

"You're lying."

"How can you tell?"

"You're not quite meeting my eyes when you talk to me, you bite the inside of your cheek, on the left side, from your view, you hardly see it, you're fiddling with a" rather delightful, Sherlock thought, "strand of hair near the base of your neck and your pupils get smaller, you're sweating slightly."

"I'm not sweating," John said, sounding slightly outraged.

Sherlock started laughing, then stifled it with the cuff of his purple shirt, horrified. He never let himself go like that. He _never_ laughed, or at least not without a murder or someone's huge misfortune.

John started laughing as well.

"Shh!" The librarian hushed them.

They couldn't stop laughing. Sherlock found this weird. He hadn't laughed this much in... well, years. He used to have fun with Mycroft, before Mycroft became a stuck up git with an umbrella shoved up his arse.

But that was ages ago.

"Keep it down, boys!" The librarian, a plump, middle aged lady, hissed at them, annoyed.

"What's with her?" John mumbled. They were on the sofa, a worn, dark red pleather sofa, trying to muffle their giggles with their hands.

"Oh, she's just worried that she's become too fat for her husband, and has a pregnant teenage daughter living in Croydon with her boyfriend. She also is desperately trying to diet, much like my brother, and, same as my brother, is failing miserably. She's half hoping for an affair with the caretaker, but she doesn't want to betray her husband. She's getting tips from her best friend, who's giving her romance novels to read, on how she could have a fling."

Sherlock said this all in one breath. John stared at him.

"How did you do that? I'd call you a genius, but I'm in the room," John said. Who was he? "Did you stalk her? You're probably making this up."

"I most certainly did not!"

"Well, how _did_ you do that?" He had to know.

"Isn't is so obvious?" Sherlock said, sighing. He was still grinning. He was showing off.

"Well, she has a book on her desk, a Weight Watchers book, in fact, and it's open, but you can see how she ticked off the boxes. Not very well. She also has a salad and an apple on her desk, but her nails are bitten down. It's not her lunch hour yet, because she has lunch at two o'clock, and it's only one fourteen. She was nervously fiddling with her glasses as well, and is crabby. There's an old snickers wrapper on the table that she'd eaten before, and she's obviously mad at herself for that, she wants to eat."

"What's with her daughter?"

"She keeps checking her phone for text messages. Also, I might have overheard a conversation yesterday, where she basically revealed everything. As for the affair, she's reading romance novels. They're obviously not her books, because she usually has a more sophisticated taste, like Dickens, or Kipling. She's unhappy about her marriage, that's why she keeps twisting her wedding ring, as if she wants to pull it off constantly, but stops herself in the last moment. The reason she reads them is so, in case she wants to, she knows how to have an affair, silly, I know, but she's lonely. She's usually a very pleasant lady."

"You know how absolutely crazy you are?" John asked.

"I'm not crazy, I pay attention. That's all I do."

"But that's pretty good. For a human, at least.”

Sherlock was glowing visibly at the praise he'd gotten.

"What do you mean, 'for a human'? What do you think I am, an alien?"

"Er, no, I was just joking."

"Don't make jokes," Sherlock muttered.

"I won't," John said, putting an arm around Sherlock's shoulder and playfully pulling him close. "Most of the time." He could feel how skinny Sherlock was. It almost frightening. "Don't you ever eat? You're practically skin and bones!"

"I do eat," Sherlock said, suddenly irritated, and pulled away from John. "I don't like it though, and it's irritating."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, a bit longer than the first one :)
> 
> Constructive criticism is really really really really rEALLY appreciated okay!! Opinions are great too :D

"Sherlock, will you please, just shut up!" Mycroft asked Sherlock, mortified.

"Why Mycroft, I thought you loved hearing my dulcet tones," Sherlock said, sarcastically, and continued arguing with the lady across the table from him.

He was actually supposed to entertain Watson while Mycroft was sealing a very important business deal with the woman's husband.

The lady facing him was extremely indignant, her huge bosom heaving, her face bright red.

"Sherlock! That was inappropriate! You don't have to have a license, and it's extremely rude to suggest that she was a prostitute!" Mycroft hissed, after dragging him from the dinner party the Duke of Kensington was hosting, by his collar. Watson he just dragged behind him carelessly. Watson followed with a resigned shrug.

"And how would you know about the license, dearest brother?" Sherlock asked. His voice was always poisoned with sarcasm when he spoke with his brother.

"While we're at it, how would you know if you need to have a license to become a prostitute?" Mycroft inquired.

"What do you mean with that?"

"Don't be ignorant," Mycroft said.

"I'm shocked by your accusation, Mycroft! How dare you suggest-"

"Well, you do spend a lot of time alone! You're out a lot, late at night, just walking around the streets! And you have a lot of older men leaving your room at all hours of the night."

"Not a lot and they're not that much older! And stop stalking me!"

"You're sixteen and your _male companions_ are at least five years older! This is for your own good, you could get hurt!"

"Well, if they're sixteen too they're not much fun, are they? Less stamina, too eager to please-"

Mycroft made a move as if to slap Sherlock, but Watson held his arm back.

“Mycroft!” Watson said, sounding horrified. “Remember the talk we had with mummy about controlling your temper?”

“I apologize,” Mycroft said, stiffly. He straightened up, as if that would make him taller. Sherlock could look on to Mycrofts head already. "We're going home."

"But Mycroft, I was having so much fun!"

"Home, Sherlock!"

When they got home Sherlock went to his room and sat on his bed, his knees pulled up to his chest and he thought.

When Sherlock was in a mood he knew he had to think.

He'd been irritable since lunch, not to John, but to everybody else. John. How weird was that? So, he knew John had brown hair. Brown, messy hair, with lighter and darker streaks coursing through it. Very messy. And green eyes. Large green eyes. Speckles of brown near the iris. And judging by what he was wearing he came from an average household. But still, there was something very, very weird about John. He didn't seem to notice when someone didn't like him, he just kept on being cheery and nice and sort of happy. If someone was mean to him he would just make them try to explain themselves, saying that they should have a reason if they were going to be rude. Even if he was an odd-looking boy. He was just lopsided all over, his eyebrows, his eyes. A slight, permanent look of surprise was on his face all the time.

But in a strangely attractive way.

Sherlock groaned. He was bored. He couldn't spend the whole night thinking about John. His stomach hurt him, making him feel strange. But not in a bad way, just... tingly. Sherlock didn't like tingly.

It reminded him of something, something painful, but for the life of him he couldn't fathom what it was. There was something about him, about his very _essence_ that made Sherlock feel like he knew him. Who was John Smith? That wasn't even his real name, what was it.

He played violin for a few hours, until Watson came up and yelled at him for a good sixteen and a half minutes.

After that he smoked eleven cigarettes and texted Lestrades father to tell him that the murder was committed by the victim. He solved murders during his free time. Lestrade gave him the case files (even if his father didn't know it) and he texted Lestrades father when he'd sold them. They were all so easy.

Sherlock slept three hours. That was enough for him.

John was in school. He was wearing the same jeans, hugging his arse. They hadn't been washed since yesterday, but they were still very clean. His T-shirt was a grey V-neck. There was a tiny speck of ketchup near his collar. It was strangely endearing. On anyone else he would have been irritated.

Sherlock tried to act normal during class, but failed. Instead of staring straight ahead he couldn't help but sneak peeks at John during class. It was the strangest sensation. He was just so distracting. Familiar.

John ignored Anderson's constant remarks about him and Sherlock. He didn't care about Anderson. The only bad part of the day was when Anderson tried to push John onto Sherlock, which resulted in Sherlock pushing John off him irritably and John wishing he could stay on him, which resulted in Sherlock getting annoyed again and stomping off, his black trench coat billowing behind him, his collar turned up.

Still, it was a progress.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't like Jim Moriarty.

He was only a substitute teacher, but Sherlock's ordinary physics teacher had an astounding habit of missing for weeks on end. It was certainly irritating, Sherlock hated substitution more than ordinary classes because no one paid any attention and it was just so loud, so he couldn't even think. And Professor Moriarty was creepy. There was just something about this man that made Sherlock shudder. Something, slimy, eel-like.

Moriarty was charming, but Sherlock loathed his classes.

"Brilliant paper," Moriarty said. "Perfect marks." His voice would always change, from high, to low, to high again.

Sherlock just nodded, put the paper in his bag and started looking bored again. It was over a week since John had appeared and Sherlock was still fascinated by him. Because John was lying. John was always lying. When someone asked him his age he lied. Where he came from was a lie too. Everything that came out of his mouth was a lie. Witness Protection Program? No, that theory was out of order. He would have a much more haunted look to him, the human psyche could only take so much, Sherlock had read. Unless he was like Sherlock, which he really doubted. No one was like Sherlock.

Except... there was sadness. When he thought no one was looking, he was so sad.

 

* * *

 

The class was tedious, repetitive. Sherlock knew more than anyone else in his class, hell, in his whole school did.

It was during Moriarty's lecture when he got bored. The boy who sat in front of him had the most beautiful, long hair. It was blonde and soft looking and halfway down his back.

Sherlock leaned forwards and took out a pair of scissors he had in his bag. He was lucky he was in the back row of the classroom and sitting alone. No one was paying any attention to him. That was good, he liked that.

He leaned forwards and gently cut off a lock of hair. The boy, Ian, luckily didn't notice anything.

Sherlock cut off another lock of hair.

Snip snip, pause, no reaction, continue.

This was definitely more entertaining than physics.

He had cut off two inches already as he saw Watson looking over at him.

Watson's face was hilarious. He looked so shocked that Sherlock was actually doing this.

He saw Watson mouth "what the fuck?" and only grinned.

He continued snipping off strands of hair.

Ian's hair was now up to his shoulders, and he still hadn't noticed anything. By now half the class was watching Sherlock. Sherlock made sure he still had his "I'm bored, piss off," face expression on.

"What are you doing?" Molly Hooper, the shy, blustering girl who sat across from him, hissed. "Stop it!"

"I'm bored," Sherlock whined quietly.

"Stop it!" Molly demanded, grinning all the same.

"Might I ask what you are doing, Mr Homes?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock slipped the scissors into his coat sleeve.

"I'm sorry, Professor, I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock lied smoothly, feigning innocence.

"Please see me after class, Mr Holmes," Moriarty said.

"If you insist," Sherlock said.

Moriarty peered at him, smiling slightly. His eyes were gleaming, dark and shiny.

Sherlock went up to Moriarty's desk after class. He stood straight and and looked bored.

"Please, do hurry up, I have classes to attend and places to be, so if you could make it quick," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, you are out of the ordinary, did you know that?"

"I am quite aware of that, was that all?"

"Would you be prepared to take extra classes after school?"

"No, I have better things to do. Anyway, I'm not failing this class and it would be unnecessary-"

"Alright, I get it," Moriarty laughed. His laugh sounded fake, and dangerous. "Didn't have to shoot me down like that. But, just one more thing," he added, as Sherlock was about to leave.

"What is it now?" Sherlock turned around to look at Moriarty again, and nearly showed a sign of emotion, something he didn't want this man to see.

“Do you know me?” Moriarty's eyes glittered, like black beetles, a hidden cunning disguised by a flamboyant cover story.

“Apart from your classes, no, and I don't wish to pursue any other kind of relationship. Now if you'll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and left. He needed a break.

Of course he could be with Chris, instead. After that he could probably sleep too. And Chris might just have what Sherlock needed.

He left the school and started walking briskly, texting at the same time.

"Hey, you busy today? ;) -SH" Sherlock knew Chris liked him flirty. Sherlock wasn't a complete sociopath/wanker all the time, he could be extremely charming when he wanted something.

It didn't take long for Chris to reply. "Thought you weren't talking to me" Chris texted back.

"What makes you think that? I missed you. -SH" Sherlock wrote.

"Your brother kicked me out of the house last time and you were grounded forever and you haven't talked to me in one and a half weeks."

"Sorry about that, Mycroft confiscated my phone. I just got it back from him. About tonight... -SH"

"Is your brother home? I was thinking about going clubbing tonight."

"No, Mycroft's at work. And anyway, I can lock him out of the house easily. -SH"

"Well, we could go to the club down in Soho, where we went with Jimmy, then to my place... ;)"

"Sounds good, pick me up at 7? -SH"

"Can hardly wait babe."

Sherlock snorted, slightly derisively. Chris liked all of the soppy sexy things, liked to pretend they were in a relationship. Well, they sort of were but Sherlock was emotionally detached. He knew Chris liked him but Sherlock didn't do "emotion".

An old lady stared at him as he shoved his phone in his pocket and at the funny sound he'd made.

Sherlock went home. Watson was watching telly.

"You going out tonight?" Watson asked Sherlock. Actually they had a good relationship, Watson wasn't dull, unlike most people in the school, and Mycroft had practically forced Sherlock to socialize when they had taken Watson into their care. It had been Mycroft and mummy’s idea to have someone for Sherlock, a friend. So they'd just gone all out.

Now Sherlock had another brother. As if one wasn't enough.

"Yes, why does it concern you?"

"Calm down, mate, just asking."

"I assume you're bringing Lestrade over tonight, because of Mycroft’s absence. If you tell Mycroft I'm out tonight you will seriously regret it."

"Yeah, alright. Want a cup of tea? I was just about to make one."

Sherlock grunted, which John took as a "yes".

Sherlock threw himself down onto the sofa just as John got up.

Mycroft came home just as Sherlock was yelling at Jeremy Kyle. Watson had gotten him into crap telly.

"Of course he cheated! Look at his eyebrows!"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Watson asked, carrying two hot mugs of tea.

"He cheated on his wife, that's obvious, but not with her sister, with her _brother_ , he's gay!" Sherlock took the mug and set it onto the coffee table, exasperated.

"How can you tell that, brother dear?" Mycroft asked, his umbrella in hand, leaning against the door frame.

"Apart from the obvious, he has tinted eyebrows and had them plucked. Also, the top of his underwear over his jeans, nice brand, by the way, and the fact that he stares just a little too long at his wife's brother, a clear indicator. Apart from that I do know how gay people look like, Mycroft, and this man is a walking stereotype."

"Yes, well, you would know. That reminds me, I hope you're not planning on staying over at your... friend's house, he does seem rather dull."

"Mummy doesn't mind if I stay out, she wants me to have friends," Sherlock retaliated.

"I don't like your friends. I'm sure mummy wouldn't be too happy if she knew who exactly you spend your time with."

"So, how's the diet going?" Sherlock asked.

"Very well, thank you very much."

"You still have cake crumbs around your mouth."

Mycroft wiped the crumbs off his mouth and stalked off.

Sherlock got up and got out his phone. He dialled his mother's number, and she picked up.

"Yes, Sherlock? I'm rather busy right now, make it quick."

"Mummy, can I go out tonight? Mycroft will be working, and Watson- I mean, John, will be at Greg's house, so I'll be all alone."

"I didn't think being alone was such a bad thing for you," his mum said.

"I know, but I have a friend, Chris, and he invited me over, can I go?"

"You have a friend?"

"Always the tone of surprise," Sherlock muttered.

"What did you just say, darling?"

"Nothing, I mean, please?"

Sherlock really could be nice when he wanted to. To his mummy.

"Just make sure you get to school in time tomorrow. Alright, darling, got to run, bye!"

Sherlock hung up. His mother was almost never home, she worked a major position in the British government which required her to travel a lot. His father was currently on a business trip, something he did a lot. Mummy Holmes always had an eye out for her husband, who wasn't blessed with the brains that mummy Holmes, Mycroft and Sherlock had. Which was fine, because he and Watson got along almost sickeningly well.

Mycroft came back in.

"What are you grinning at?"

"Never you mind," Sherlock snapped.

At exactly seven there was a ring on the doorbell, and Sherlock, grabbing his coat, ran out.

Chris swept him up for a kiss.

Sherlock kissed him back and they left. He saw Mycroft peering out of the window, disapprovingly.

They went to the club and Chris eyed Sherlock appreciatively. Sherlock had on a dark purple shirt, it was tight, with the first two buttons open, and tight black jeans. The music was oppressing and loud, a constant thump thump thump thump thump.

Chris got them drinks, and he sat while Sherlock danced. Sherlock ground against other guys to make Chris jealous and it was working. That was good, because he knew how well he'd get shagged later.

Then Chris finally swept Sherlock up into his arms and kissed him.

Sherlock kissed him back and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Chris' jeans, pulling him closer. Even though Chris was a good three and a half years older he was just as tall as him.

He felt Chris' muscular chest and he ran his hands over it. Hmm, he'd missed this. Sherlock was not really one for physical contact, but sex was fine, sex was okay. As long as he bottomed. The orgasms were more intense, and so worth the pain.

"Let's get out of here," Chris said, running his hands over Sherlock's bum.

Sherlock kissed Chris' neck, then bit his ear.

They could hardly keep their hands off each other in the cab on the way home. Chris practically threw a wad of fivers at the driver, and pulled Sherlock along. They were already ripping their clothes off as Chris unlocked the apartment door.

They sat down on the sofa, Chris pulled Sherlock on his lap.

“What do you want tonight?” Chris asked.

“Hm,” Sherlock muttered against Chris’ lips. “Anything.”

“Alright,” Chris said. He pushed Sherlock off his lap and got a couple of baggies out from underneath the sofa.

He lit a candle and held a spoonful of the stuff under the little flame. He prepared the needle, while Sherlock took off his belt and tied it around his upper arm, over his elbow. Chris made a fix for him and Sherlock.

The stuff shot through his veins and Sherlock felt it work, tingling, soothing his ragged nerves.

Chris did the same, pulling Sherlock on him again, kissing him, feeling him up. He pulled him off the sofa and slowly lead him to the bedroom.

Chris pressed Sherlock against the wall and started pulling his shirt off.

"You. Look. So. Amazing," he said, kisses punctuating every word.

Sherlock moaned against his lips and they just got to the bed in time.

Chris and Sherlock got undressed quickly. Chris straddled Sherlock, and pushed him down against the pillows, kissing him. Sherlock could feel Chris’ stubble roughly scraping against his cheek.

Chris got out the lube, squirted a little bit on his fingers and gently inserted it into Sherlock. He let out a moan and moved against him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo here's another chapter!! Thanks for the kudos and thanks for reading, you guys are great!
> 
> Anyway, here goes basically plotless porn so um yeah
> 
> CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM PLEASE

Sherlock woke up, his head still pounding from the drugs. He was covered in dried sweat and he was lying on the fluffy carpeting of Chris' living room. Lena was watching TV, Paul was sleeping on the sofa and Chris still had his arms flung around him.

He noticed someone had thrown a blanket over him and Chris.

Sherlock took the blanket and went to the bathroom for a shower. It was dark outside, about eleven at night.

When Sherlock came back into the living room only wearing boxers, Lena whistled, eyeing his torso appreciatively.

Sherlock blushed slightly, and scooped up his shirt from the floor, pulling it on as fast as he could.

"There's nothing I didn't see just a few hours ago, okay?" Lena laughed.

"Don't speak," Sherlock said. "You seem much more intelligent with your mouth shut."

"You did not just say that to me," Lena said, flatly.

"Did I fucking stutter?"

"God, someone's grumpy after sex," Lena mumbled.

"Tired."

"You should be, after all you two did... You had amazing stamina. How old are you?"

"Above the age of consent."

"That could mean anything. What are you, fifteen?" ( **A/N: The age of consent where I live is fourteen so yeah** )

"Don't be simple."

"How long do you know Chris?"

"What is this? A fucking game show? Pass me some of that coke."

Lena raised an eyebrow and gave it to Sherlock. Sherlock took some more and fell back onto the couch in the familiar, happy, drug induced state he loved so much.

Sherlock snuck out of Chris' apartment after having sex with him one more time. He went back home, changed clothes and lay down on his bed for a few hours.

 

* * *

 

 

School was dull.

Sherlock had physics with Moriarty.

During the whole lessons where they had to answer questions Moriarty stared at Sherlock with a rather bemused face expression.

And then there was the tapping. It was the tapping, the exact same one as in his head. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap-

Rapping his elegant fingernails on the desk. The same four beats over and over and over.

It drove Sherlock mad, and even though he did his very best to conceal it, he had the worst feeling that Moriarty knew exactly what he was doing. He was seriously fucking Sherlock up.

After class Sherlock ran to the bathrooms and threw up in a stall. He shouldn't have gone to school. He felt the familiar dull settle in his bones, aching for the clarity of the drugs. Usually he could block it out, but it was harder when he'd just done them.

He leaned against the porcelain. Breathe. Relax. Ignore the thumping.

He heard the door open. If it was a teacher he was screwed.

But no, it was John. Only John tread on the ground as if he was unsure it wouldn't break immediately under his feet.

"Sherlock," John called. He heard a strange buzzing sound, and a click. The door to the cubicle opened.

"How did you get in?" Sherlock demanded. "The door was closed!"

"Not any more," John said, cheerfully. "So, how are you feeling?" He felt Sherlock's cheeks and forehead, as if for temperature, then waved this metallic... pen-shaped utensil in front of Sherlock's face.

Then he tutted, and shook his head. "Cocaine, Sherlock?" He sighed.

"How the fuck-"

"I'd expected you to be more eloquent," John said. "But never mind, here, swallow this." He held up a bottle of a blue liquid.

Sherlock took it, opened it and sniffed it. "Hydrochloric acid? Chloroform? Gold dust? Is this... moon rock?! Are you trying to kill me?"

"Certainly not! It'll work! I don't know what your silly little human brain was thinking, though, don't you know cocaine is bad?"

"My what?!" Sherlock thundered, sounding outraged. "I'd have to be lacking forty IQ points to be called a genius! My mind is one of the most brilliant the human race has seen in over three centuries!" Next to his brother's, not that he would ever say that out loud.

"Alright, Mr Huffy Pants, calm down! I'm simply saying how incredibly stupid it is to be using cocaine! And heroin, too, my screwdriver's not blind, it can see that you're a junkie."

"I'm not a junkie! I have more dignity!"

"Do you though?" John looked inexplicably sad. Sherlock thought of the night before and felt... ashamed. Sherlock Holmes never felt ashamed.

"Okay, maybe you're a little right."

"I'm the Doctor, I'm always right."

"You're not a doctor, you're a sixteen year old boy stuck at- No. No no no no no."

"Can I come to your house today?"

"You're just inviting yourself over?" Sherlock asked, as bemused as someone in his state could be.

"Well, sort of. I just need to see if you have a pocket watch somewhere."

"Mycroft has one."

"Can I come?"

"If you must."

"Yay!"

Sherlock looked a little terrified at John's enthusiasm. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know, but it reveals stuff. Constructive criticism, blah blah blah, you know the drill.

They went home together. Mycroft picked them up in a shiny limousine. He looked John up and down once, but let any comment he had in mind slip.

“Behave,” Mycroft warned Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. “I will be home late.”

Sherlock dragged John to his room and locked the door.

"Can I see the pocket watch?" John asked.

"Why?"

"It's important. Can I see it?"

"Mycroft won't even let me near it."

John made a puppy face. "Can we look at it? Please?"

"You mean look at it? As in sneak it out of Mycroft's pocket and stealing it looking at him?"

"That's what I meant."

"Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock knew that Mycroft wasn't coming home until two in the morning, and he also knew that no one would care if John slept at his house.

Sherlock stole the key to Mycroft's study while Mycroft was in the shower. As soon as he was gone he lead John up to the massive library that Mycroft called his study.

“Where is it?” John asked.

“There,” Sherlock said. His gaze had been drawn to it as soon as he'd entered the room. It was on one of the bookshelves, at a level that heavily suggested that Mycroft picked it up and put it back down again regularly.

He took it.

It was heavier than he'd have thought, and decorated with strange circles and lines. It was familiar. Somehow it was familiar.

John stared at it.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. John looked like he'd seen a ghost.

“Do you remember me?” John asked, quietly.

Sherlock looked at him, confused. Then his mind started to work, doing what it did best.

Familiar, but how?

Linked to a pocket watch.

???

Why does Mycroft have it?

???

But how?

John Smith, not John Smith.

Who is John Smith? Who is John Smith? Who is John Smith?

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked.

“Don't you remember me?”

“Who. Are. You?"

“I'm the pretty boy with the blue box,” John said.

Blue? No, wasn't it red? What was blue again?

Master.

“No,” Sherlock whispered. He backed away, and nearly stumbled over the chair near the door. He fell in it. John slowly came closer. He looked broken.

“You don't remember me?” John asked. The hurt in his voice was painfully obvious.

Sherlock slowly shook his head. John fell down to his knees. “Please,” he begged. “Please.”

“What are you talking about? What is this? Who are you?”

“I'm the Doctor.” He looked into Sherlock's eyes, leaned in closer, and kissed him. Sherlock froze.

Sherlock dropped the pocket watch he was holding.

It opened.

There was a flash of light, and Sherlock gasped, reeling back. He fell on the floor and clutched his head.

He remembered.

It was like a massive dam in his head broke, snapping, releasing a huge amount of _memories_.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked at John, his mouth open, breathing shallowly, his eyes were flickering back and forth, seeing things only he could see, flinching every now and then.

“No,” he whispered. “It's my fault!”

“No, no, no, it's not your fault!” John said, dropping down to the carpeting of Mycrofts study, next to Sherlock. “It's not your fault!”

“Are you real?” Sherlock asked.

“You're delirious,” John said.

“I missed you so much,” Sherlock said. He was still staring into space, right over John's shoulder, shivering. “Where were you? It was dark, so very dark, and I was so...”

He paused, and swallowed, and looked right into John's eyes.

“Alone.” The word was a mere breath on his lips, his eyes focusing now, the colour ever changing, a swirling sea of blue and green and grey and they're so beautiful.

“I will never leave you again, I promise!”

“The Doctor lies,” Sherlock said, softly.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... yeah I have no excuse. I've been a little shit with the updating (for personal reasons, dysphoria, depression, anxiety etc.) so here it is! The final chapter! 
> 
> Please don't bash my brains in, and read this.

“Do you know who you are?”

Sherlock stared at John, and slowly nodded. “Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am, I know you do. Don't ask stupid questions,” he snapped, sounding normal again.

“Let's go home,” John said, and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock held it tightly.

“I knew this would happen,” a voice from the door groaned.

The two boys stared accusingly at Mycroft, who stood in the door, looking at them in dismay.

“Honestly, I can never keep you two apart for longer than a year, this is getting ridiculous,” Mycroft said.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demanded.

“ _Mycroft?!_ ” John yelled.

“Oh, don't look so surprised,” Mycroft said airily, tutting lightly. “This is the fourth time I've had to wipe your memories, yet you _insist_ on finding each other again.”

“Why are you doing this?” John asked.

“You know the Master is searching for you. I used Sherlock as bait, and hoped that you'd find some distraction somewhere in the universe that's _not_ this tiny, insignificantly important planet, but no, you always come rushing in right in the middle of everything. Typical, Doctor.”

“You used me as _bait_?!” Sherlock yelped.

“Oh, don't be so dramatic, I'm sure you would have done the same if it were me,” Mycroft said, and paused. “Actually, I'm sure you would have just fed me to the sharks but no matter. We, the High Council of Timelords, have located him.”

“I hate you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, you always say you do but in the end it's always me who has to save your sorry arses. A little gratitude would be welcome.”

“I hardly need your gratitude,” Sherlock snapped. “We were fine without you rubbing your abnormally large nose into our business.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, condescendingly, as if he was talking to a little boy. “I know you think you can do all these things on your own and save the world, but you must remember how you couldn't do it without my help.”

“Come on,” Sherlock said to John. “Let's go.”

“It's dangerous,” Mycroft said. “You shouldn't go until we've taken care of things.”

“Mycroft, you utter cock!” Sherlock said. “What are you going to do, lock us in? Good luck with that.”

"Must you always be so melodramatic?" Mycroft sighed.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Come on, Doctor, we're going to find the master and kick his sorry arse to the farthest corner of the universe."

"Together," the Doctor smiled at Sherlock, linking their fingers.

"Together," Sherlock promised, kissing the Doctor's knuckles.

And that's exactly what they did.

Mycroft just rolled his eyes and sent for backup. No matter how old the two were or where they found themselves, they were still, and would always be, the cheesiest couple he knew.

And that was okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this is it!
> 
> (Also, I know Chris isn't a big part of this story but I needed an excuse to write mad amounts of gay porn so I found one ;) )
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for the support, you're all lovely :D


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